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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756728">FRACTURES</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine'>AgnesClementine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Winchester Arthur AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inception (2010), Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>??? I THINK???, Arthur's Backstory, Blood and Gore, Family History, Gen, I don't think it's too bad, I guess???, Pre-Canon, Self-Indulgent, author doesn't know what she's doing, but to be safe, there's a child seeing a corpse so, thread carefully</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:56:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756728</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is not an idiot; he knows things are not adding up; Dad’s job, the car, the money, Dean, Sam. They’re all just puzzle pieces that don’t fit anywhere in Arthur’s puzzle, no matter how he turns them and under which angle he looks at them.</p>
<p>***************************************</p>
<p>As per usual, an insanely self-indulgent idea that just wouldn't leave me.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur &amp; Sam &amp; Dean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Winchester Arthur AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>FRACTURES</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't know why I was nervous, but I've been playing tug-o-war with this fic for a better part of this week and now I've finally plucked up enough courage to toss it into the void of the internet lol.</p>
<p>If anyone familiar with my other fics is reading this- well. 1) Is it even a surprise I wrote this? and 2) Yes, I do have a love for making characters related to the Winchesters. <br/>For everyone else who decided to give this fic a chance, thank you and don't hesitate to let me know what you think! :)</p>
<p>(for a bit of context and clarity, I have firmly decided that this WILL be a HAPPY AU- squints at brain- (even though it might not seem like that in this fic lol) so everyone is alive and well *and will stay that way*. The age gaps between the boys are: Arthur and Sam- 6yrs, and Arthur and Dean- 10 yrs. And I will elaborate on the possible confusion of their family tree in future fics (fingers crossed))</p>
<p>Anyway, ah, enjoy! :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Arthur sits in front of the window at the front door, face pressed against the glass, and leaving smudges on its surface, for a long, long time. It’s Saturday, the first of the month, and Dad’s coming to visit. Dad and Sam and Dean. Arthur had his birthday two weeks ago; he’s 10 years old and now his brothers will finally let him play with them. He’s not a little kid anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breathes out an excited whoosh of air that fogs up the glass and pulls his head back to draw a square in the mist. He squints through the clear lines. Apple trees tipping this way and that way on both sides of the gravel road curving into the distance from their front yard. He shifts on the chair because his butt is going numb. Maybe he can go grab a cushion from the living room and- no. They will probably be here soon and Arthur wants to see them driving in so he can tell Mom that they arrived. She’s in the kitchen, which means that she’s busy and doesn’t have time to watch the road. So Arthur has to do it. Because he’s responsible and Mom will tell Dad that he’s responsible so Dad will take him on a road trip with his brothers when they leave again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps creak over the floorboards behind his back. “Arthur?” His mom calls out, the footsteps stop, and then she adds, “Sweetie, you’re still waiting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gnaws at his bottom lip and swings his feet, smacking the sides of his sneakers against each other. “Yeah,” he says. His hair inches towards the corners of his eyes so he tucks it behind his ears, pulls the sleeves of his shirt up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t know when they’ll be here. Why don’t you go watch TV for a bit, hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur drags the tip of his finger diagonally over the square, squints through the new line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ll be here soon. They always come for lunch,” he tells her, proud of his observation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do they,” Mom says lightly. “Come to the kitchen if you get thirsty or hungry, okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he responds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kisses the top of his head, combs her fingers through his hair, and then her footsteps retreat back into the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon, her voice drifts in, faintly, and Arthur is trying not to eavesdrop because that’s impolite. Still, he catches a few words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John...waiti-..coming...where...are…-ou alright? Okay. And when…? Later?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shifts into a cross-legged position, sighs, and settles in. He’ll just have to wait longer, that’s all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Mom hustles him into the kitchen to have lunch by informing him Dad and his brother</span>
  <span>s won’t come until evening. He picks through his vegetables, regretfully wondering why they don’t have a dog so he could feed him the pieces of cooked broccoli under the table. As it is, they don’t have a dog, and Arthur forces down every mouthful of weird, lumpy vegetable with a grimace on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mom’s watching him across the table in amusement, a bit of carrot speared on her fork. “Don’t wrinkle your nose, Arthur,” she tells him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says and shudders when the next mouthful goes down his throat. He chases away the taste and sensation with a big gulp of orange juice and steels himself for more. His only consolation is the knowledge that there’s vanilla pudding waiting for him in the fridge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sifts through the mushy pile on his plate and asks, “Mom, why don’t they live with us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He asked that before, but Mom told him he’s too young to understand. He’s not too young anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks at him with furrowed eyebrows. She clears her throat. “Your dad has to travel for work a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But why can’t Sam and Dean stay here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” she says, “he’s their dad. And they want to stay together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He frowns. “He’s my dad too. And I’m not staying with them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re staying with me. I’m your mom. They can’t be with their mom anymore, so they’re with their dad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur mulls over that. Do all parents have to have at least one kid with them at all times? He doesn’t get it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mom chuckles and collects their plates- giving him a meaningful look at the carnage he left on his own- and says, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur pouts when she’s not looking and starts swinging his legs again while waiting for the dessert. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s stacking all opal-shaped stones he found so far in their driveway on the windowsill in his room when the familiar noise rumbles in the distance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur gasps, lets the remaining stones in his hand to clatter to the floor, and rushes out into the hallway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mom! They’re here! Mom!” He hollers, thundering down the stairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arthur! Careful on the stairs!” Mom calls back from the living room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The roar of the engine is already loud enough to send goosebumps racing over his skin and he bursts onto the porch just as Dad’s Impala comes to a stop, grounding the gravel beneath its tires.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart thunders in his chest and he skips the last two steps on the porch to throw himself at the first person that gets out on the side closer to the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean!” He yells into Dean’s stomach, arms locked around his waist, and squeals when Dean spins him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, kid,” Dean says, setting him down. “Your hair got longer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s how hair works,” Arthur tells him, tucks a strand behind his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Smartass,” Dean says and pokes him in the ribs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jumps away with a squeak just as Sam untangles himself from the backseat. “Hey, Arthur,” he says and straightens </span>
  <em>
    <span>up and up and up</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Arthur stares at him in awe. He’s as tall as Dean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He catches Arthur gaping at him and smirks, puffing up until he’s an inch above Dean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean gives him a disgusted, betrayed look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur just can’t wait for the day when he’ll be taller than them. Because obviously, that’s how this works; the younger you are, the taller you get.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, sport,” Dad says from behind him and ruffles his hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi!” He responds with a grin, tipping his head back to look at Dad upside-down. Dad gives him back a small smile, his eyes tense. He’s probably tired. Hm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll help with the bags!” Arthur announces, spins on his heels to head towards the trunk- and then Dean snatches his upper arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, why don’t you and I go for a walk, huh? My legs need a workout after sitting in the car all day. Let Sammy lug around the bags while we do cool stuff,” he suggests with a conspiratorial wink, already nudging Arthur towards the woods on the side of the property.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam lets out a sigh and then Arthur stops listening to anything that’s not Dean asking him about his birthday and what he did since their last visit and navigating him through the shrubbery. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They stumble into the house through the back door just before dinner, by Dean’s estimate. Arthur’s winded, legs and lungs aching, but he’s still smiling widely. He beat Dean, whose footsteps smack against the floorboards, following after him and then bypassing him to stick his head directly under the faucet in the kitchen sink and gulp down water greedily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Drink up,” he tells Arthur after he fills up a glass and pushes it into Arthur’s adrenaline-shaky hand. Arthur drinks, breathing through his nose, and then the noise registers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mom and Dad are in the living room, their voices hushed but the punctuation is just sharp enough to slice through the air, making their argument a background noise for both Arthur and Dean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s already inching his way to the hallway when Dean halts him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to hear,” Arthur tells him, bordering on a whine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just the adults’ talk,” Dean says, waving his hand as if to emphasize how silly it is. Still-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But-” Arthur starts. He’s always asking questions, he knows. And it’s annoying, he knows. But he rarely gets answers and maybe- maybe he would get some answers this way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon,” Dean says, jostling him with a hand on his shoulder, and opens a cupboard that groans with the movement and slams closed when Dean doesn’t find what he was looking for in there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The arguing cuts out and Arthur cuts a narrow-eyed look at his brother, who barely looks apologetic about the noise he just made.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” he says, ignoring Arthur’s glare, “I should ask your mom if she wants me to oil the hinges in here. They’re kinda squeaky, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur huffs and then his mom is standing at the doorway and ushering him to go wash his hands before the meal.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After dinner, during which Arthur kept asking where they’ve been this time, and his mom kept reminding him not to talk with his mouth full and to give his dad and brothers a rest while they eat, Arthur parks himself on the couch between his brothers. They are watching some action movie that Arthur is too young to both understand and watch- but Sam spends the majority of its run time holding a hand over Arthur’s eyes- and his ears- so his mom doesn’t say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This movie sucks,” Sam says at one point, his palm warm over Arthur’s face and his voice rattling through his side where Arthur’s head is pressed against it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think everything sucks,” Dean responds, “doesn’t make you the expert.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude, the blood splatter-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gah-ah-ah,” Dean garbles out, presses his hand over Arthur’s ear. Arthur bats away at both of their hands, unsuccessfully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam huffs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a shift on the couch, a soft “thwack” immediately followed by Sam twitching and lunging at Dean- effectively squishing Arthur between the two of them and the mattress with an indignant squawk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are so dead, De-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give me your best, Samantha-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur is very close to biting into the first body part closest to his face, and then their dad clears his throat and says, “Boys.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brothers freeze and Arthur takes the opportunity to wiggle out from between them with a victorious, “I am free!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blows hair out of his face and gives his dad a sheepish smile at the arched eyebrow he aims down at him. After a beat, he says, “They started it.” Which isn’t even a lie. This time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brothers splutter in betrayal from the couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Traitor,” Dean accuses and wiggles his fingers over Arthur’s ribs, sweeping in behind him and Arthur bucks, trying to break free and howling with laughter when Dean snatches him into the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad watches them from the doorway for a second longer, like he’s debating himself, then he meaningfully says, “Dean, Sam, don’t you two have something to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That finally prompts Dean to set Arthur down, mercifully leaving his ribs alone and allowing him to catch his breath and blink the tears of laughter from his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah,” Dean breathes out like he just remembered what Dad is talking about. “C’mon, Sammy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The automatic “It’s Sam,” gets cut off when Arthur twists around to look up at his brothers and asks, “Can I come to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both freeze like deers in headlights, first looking at each other, then at Dad, lost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh,” Dean starts, uncomfortable, “this is sort of...me and Sam thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I’m ten,” Arthur says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brothers always leave to do something without him in the evening. They never let him come with them, no matter how much he asks. They say he’s too young- but Arthur is ten years old now, and he can do all different things on his own. He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>too young</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean blinks, flickers his eyes over Arthur’s shoulder at their dad. “Erm,” he starts again and deflates when Dad speaks up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe you have a curfew.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur wrinkles up his nose. “Curfews are for little kids.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arthur.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scrunches up his face, frowns up at his dad. He doesn’t understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No buts. You still have a curfew, don’t argue,” his dad says calmly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur hangs his head. He won’t argue; Sam argues, sometimes, with Dad, and Arthur always hears just the start because someone always sends him away to play outside- or inside, depending on where the argument is taking place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s not fair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” he says, padding out of the room while his brothers chorus the word back at him and Dad ruffles his hair in passing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he’s huddled inside his bed, he says, “It’s not fair,” to his mom when she comes to check up on him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t actually respond to that, sighing into the dark while her fingers card through his hair and tuck the comforter tighter around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweet dreams, sweetie,” she whispers when his breathing goes slow and his brain goes fuzzy, and kisses his head before leaving the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes up, it’s so dark he can hardly see. There’s a sliver of light coming in through the gap between the door and the doorway, but just faintly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur wiggles out of the bed groggily, not entirely sure what woke him up in the first place. All he can hear is his own breathing, but then, as he slips out into the hallway, the whispers from downstairs reach his ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not supposed to be out of the bed right now- sometimes he can’t fall asleep no matter how tired he is and he used to walk around the house or play or draw until he got tired, but Mom doesn’t let him do that anymore because he didn’t get tired very often even after that. But he can tell apart more voices than just Mom and Dad’s, which means that his brothers are still awake too, so it can’t be too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He inches towards the stairwell slowly, peers down towards the kitchen where the light is coming from, aside from the porch light outside and the chandelier in the foyer that casts the light onto the stairwell and the hallway upstairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a noise, something set on the kitchen table with a clink and then, suddenly, Mom’s voice raising until Arthur can make out, “...said this won’t happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He starts a slow descent down the stairs, his hands clinging to the poles of the handrail and his bare feet silent on the carpeted wood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take care of it, Rose,” Dad says, his voice coming out weird, like the words are getting caught in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn right, you are,” Mom says sharply and Arthur’s eyes go big at the swear while he crawls over to the edge of the wall, listening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad sighs, then Dean asks, out of breath, “You guys think he’s still asleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur freezes, hoping that no one is going to go check on him; they would definitely catch him before he managed to get back to bed without them seeing or hearing him, and this is his chance. Maybe, if he gets some answers now, he’ll be allowed to do the Sam and Dean thing with them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, he thinks excitedly, maybe this is the Sam and Dean thing. And now, he’ll finally know what it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After that ruckus? It would be a miracle,” Sam grumbles out, his voice lilting in the same way as their dad’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur risks a peek around the doorway, buzzing with excitement- just to find Dean crouching on the floor with his back facing Arthur, hunched over something. Sam is standing next to him, a roll of plastic wrap held in his hand, hanging limply by his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pray it is one,” his mom says glumly. She’s standing, facing their dad, strands of her hair tumbling out of her ponytail, breathing hard. Her eyes fall to the hammer resting on the table, tinged with red like tomato sauce, and she gives it a half-hearted shove with a scowl on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean grunts in what Arthur thinks is agreement and says, “Alright, Sammy, gimme the wrap before this shit leaks through my fingers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gross, Dean,” Sam responds but still hands him the roll obediently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean reaches for it and struggles to regain his balance. He doesn’t make a sound, but now, with his body out of the way, Arthur can see the man sprawled on the floor. His head is canted to the side awkwardly, dirty hair matted to his uneven scalp with something that shines dark red-brown under the kitchen light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean swears, just a quiet hiss, and then lands sideways on his ass. His hand, outstretched away from his body, glistens, slicked red, and something goopy drips from his fingers to land on the tiles with a splat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It clicks like a puzzle piece in his head and Arthur gasps, unable to stop himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His sharp intake of air cuts through the quietness and all heads snap in his direction, color draining from everyone’s faces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arthur,” his mom says like she’s angry or terrified, and- now facing him- Arthur can see specks of red smeared across the side of her face in stark contrast against the whiteness of her skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gasps anew, smaller, and scrambles backward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean jumps to his feet, makes an aborted motion to head towards him when his face crumbles painfully as he glances down at his bloodied hands and clothes and utters a quiet, “Fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Sam is there, swooping him up even though Arthur is way too big to be carried anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arthur, it’s fine,” he says, holding him close to his body while they go back upstairs. Arthur keeps staring at the kitchen doorway- Sam’s shirt clenched in his fingers so hard his arms are shaking- until Sam tucks his head in the crook of his neck. “It’s fine,'' he repeats, but Arthur is thinking about the man in the kitchen, imagines his eyes staring up at the ceiling, up at the sky, like that dead cat he and Dean have seen on the edge of the road two years ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In his room, Sam wrangles him under the blanket and the comforter, patiently pries Arthur’s fingers out of his shirt while Arthur shakes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur swears he can hear the plastic wrap squeaking downstairs; can imagine Dean scooping up gooey, bloody bits of brain from the tiles, but real careful because they’d squish like play-doh in his hands if he squeezed too hard-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something in the air cracks and Arthur’s eyes start burning with tears. He launches across the bed to wrap his arms around Sam’s middle, face shoved into Sam’s stomach and holding on tight to keep him here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because there’s something in the kitchen, some monsters that are pretending to be his family and that didn’t want Arthur to be awake, didn’t want to come to his room, and he and Sam are safe here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sobs, crying quietly so the monsters wouldn’t hear him, “Stay, stay, don’t go, Sam.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Above, Sam goes still and then his arms close around Arthur’s back. He bends down over Arthur’s body, close, close, close where they are safe and his throat clicks loudly before he whispers into Arthur’s ear, “Shh, it’s just a dream, Arthur. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s just a dream.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the morning, Mom makes him cereal, her hair smelling like raspberry shampoo, and Arthur scuffs the toe of his sneaker over the rusty, red-brown fractures in the tiles on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur is 15 and his bones hurt and it’s so god-awful hot. In the distance, from where he’s sprawled over the porch steps, letting the breeze cool him down, he can hear Impala’s engine rumbling. He lets the sound wash over him; shake the pain out of his joints, and drown out the pounding of his headache. His fingers are splayed over the grimy, wooden boards, and he can practically feel the vibrations shuddering through them, all the way up his arm, as the sound gets louder and louder and louder-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wind blows his hair into his face, and he lifts up on his elbows, watches through the strands as the car pulls up into the gravel driveway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sun reflects from the black, gleaming surface, undoubtedly hot to the touch. Arthur dreams about it sometimes; how they would drive and drive- not through the measly stretch of pebbled road from their remote home that gives way to asphalt that Arthur takes to school each day. but down the long stretches of open road, down the highway, up and away from the tall grass and baby blue skies. They would stop at the gas station and Dad would tell everyone to get out, stretch their legs, and Arthur would lean, ever so lightly, against the hood and it would scorch his fingertips into reddened circles of skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door creaks open and he pulls himself up into a sitting position, sweeps the hair out of his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean heaves himself out of the passenger seat, squints against the Sun before his eyes fall on Arthur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Jesus,</em>” he says, “still with the hair?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur flips him off- drops his hand before Dad sees it or Mom walks out to greet them- and says, “Still with the hair. Jealous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean snorts. “Oh, yeah, embarrassingly,” he says mockingly and yanks at one of the strands on his way up the steps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur hisses and bats his hand away, staring up at him with a glare while his brother smirks down at him, delighted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Outside of his periphery, Dad is digging through the Impala’s trunk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean,” he calls out, “if you think I’m gonna carry your stuff in the house, you should reevaluate.” And then, still, he tosses a duffle through the small distance between them at Dean, who catches it against his chest with an </span>
  <em>
    <span>ompf</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, sir!” Dean barks lightly, apparently in a good mood. He hasn’t been in a good mood a lot since Sam had a fight with Dad and left for college, 3 years ago. It’s not something anyone talks about, no matter how much Arthur nags. He figures they’ll tell him, they just...need time. Mom doesn’t know what happened either, Arthur thinks, and Sam was with Dad and Dean much more than he was with Arthur, whatever happened, they’re taking it hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad points a finger at Dean, a silent “</span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re on thin fucking ice, son</span>
  </em>
  <span>”, and then ruffles Arthur’s hair on his way inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur squeaks in protest and smoothes it down, asking, “Why is everyone touching my hair?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you keep your hair so long?” Dean asks back, pitching his voice up to mimic Arthur’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Asshole</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Arthur thinks, narrowing his eyes at him. “Why are you such a dick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, come here, you little shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur scrambles to his feet and runs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The week passes before Arthur really notices and then he’s helping Dean haul their bags in the trunk again, getting ready for the road.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snatches yet another canister of petrol- </span>
  <em>
    <span>who the fuck needs this much petrol on hand?</span>
  </em>
  <span>- and carries it to the car, brows furrowed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, talking (AKA, arguing civilly) about Arthur- but before he could make heads or tails out of anything, Dean has dragged him out here to play his personal valet. It’s- well. Arthur is not an idiot; he knows things are not adding up; Dad’s job, the car, the money, Dean, Sam. They’re all just puzzle pieces that don’t fit anywhere in Arthur’s puzzle, no matter how he turns them and under which angle he looks at them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows they’re hiding something. He just doesn’t know what.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude, you’re slow,” Dean tells him, bypassing him and tossing a duffle into the far corner of the trunk, next to a closed crate of something that made a clattering noise when Dean set it down and scooted it back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur sets the canister by the rear of the car with a huff and says, “I’m thirsty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to head to the kitchen, everything be damned, when Dean stops him with “Whoa, let me get you a glass while you haul that in.” He adds, “You know, like the best older brother that I am."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How very kind of you,” Arthur deadpans and lets him scurry into the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him three tries to get a good enough grip to set the canister inside the trunk- and when he does, it hits the floor with a hollow thunk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur pauses, staring at the carpeted bottom of the trunk and wondering if he heard right. He brings his fist down at it a few times, eliciting the same noise, and then pries his fingers into one of the corners, trying to peel off the covering with his blunt nails. Because that right there? That’s a false bottom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s just about to get a good grip when a duffle flies past his head, making him jerk away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoops, gotta watch your head, kid, I almost got you,” Dean says from behind him and reaches over Arthur’s shoulder to close the trunk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lines around his eyes are tense despite the carefree smile he slaps on as he hands Arthur his glass of water.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So what is it exactly that you do?” Arthur asks during lunch, blinking freshly cut bangs out of his eyes, shaking his head, and feeling a strange sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing</span>
  </em>
  <span> when there’s no hair sweeping over his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His family stops, Dean with his mouth already open to take in the biggest roll of spaghetti wrapped around his fork that Arthur has ever seen. Arthur’s history teacher is the same age as Dean, which seems absurd and impossible whenever it crosses his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad’s fork clinks lightly against the plate when he sets it down, showing that Arthur has his attention. “Lots of things,” he says, vaguely as always. “Why are you asking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“School paper,” Arthur responds tersely, pokes at his own food without much appetite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad hums and Arthur’s eyes fall to the empty chair reserved for Sam. It’s been collecting dust for a while now. Not that Arthur knows why; he knows Sam and Dad had a falling out, he remembers how they used to argue when Arthur was younger, before he finished middle school and started high school- but he still doesn’t know what they argued about, or what the falling out has been about, or why Sam only calls occasionally and has visited only a handful of times, for holidays, even though Mom told him when this thing between him and Dad first happened that he’s always welcome here. Arthur has seen his fucking dentist more in the last six years more than he has seen Sam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know if he talks to Dean more often than he does to Arthur, and Dean won’t talk to him about Sam or anything substantial, really, just some bullshit back and forth</span>
  <em>
    <span> like Arthur can’t see through all of their bullshit that they’re trying to feed him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What kind of a school paper do you need that for?” Dean asks before shoveling in his gigantic forkful of spaghetti.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur shrugs. “It’s a free topic,” he jabs his fork into his plate, “I’ll just pick something else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad nods and picks up his fork again. His knuckles are scarred, thick calluses on his fingers. Arthur notices these things, now, even though everyone else thinks he’s oblivious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should start thinking about college,” Mom pipes up. “It’s better to have a plan now than to end up running around like a headless chicken next year. Time flies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, I’m working on it,” Arthur says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a lie; he’s got a plan, finished to the last detail, even though it has nothing to do with college- but nobody is telling him anything, so it’s only fair he returns in kind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur stands on top of the stairwell. The setting is familiar; the carpet pricks his bare feet with grains of dust and dirt and pebbles from outside and the chandelier throws out dim lights over the hallway and foyer, casts shadows of the handrail like prison bars over the wall. The air smells like dried grass and mosquito repellent. Arthur descends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Outside, everything is silent and there’s no light coming in, like nothing outside this house even exists- this is Arthur’s universe narrowed down into his childhood home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pads soundlessly into the kitchen, gets himself a glass of water, and drains half of it by the time he steps over to the body sprawled by the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sets the glass by the hammer on the tabletop and crouches down. On the wall above the fridge, the hands on the clock are twitching, little jerks left-right without truly moving. It’s gonna be every minute now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur looks down at the smudged face under him; like a freshly painted canvas someone dragged his hand over carelessly and wiped off all distinct features of the painting. He sighs and shifts to his knees, already braced for what’s coming. The clock-hands keep twitching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The eyes below him roll in their sockets and then lock to his own- hands snag the collar of his sleeping shirt, dig into the back of his head, fingers tangling with strands of hair that have been buzzed off as soon as Arthur left home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He braces his palms flat on the cold tiles, elbows locked, but it’s always a lost battle- the dead man in his childhood kitchen is always stronger. He yanks Arthur down, both of them turning to their sides as Arthur’s right elbow gives. His temple smacks against the tiles harshly, a sharp stab of pain that spreads like roots following a path through his nerves. He only makes a hiss, lets air escape through his clenched teeth, and then his head collides with the floor once again, harder, causing his orbital bone to crack. He yells, blood trickling into his eye, turning everything fuzzy. Plastic wrap creaks, sticks to the skin of his face, sealing him off- his head cracks against the tiles for the third time-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks awake to the artificial, cold lights of the sleeping chamber. His temple itches and he raises his hand to scratch it, aborting the motion just a few seconds later when he remembers the EEG headset he’s wearing. He opts for scrunching up his face instead and just waiting for the sensation to go away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good dream?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks over at the guy next to him, hooked up to the mirror image of Arthur’s monitors. He looks fresh; he’s not as pale or drowsy as Arthur feels, hooked up down here until his session runs out. Arthur doesn’t know him; last time he was awake, that bed was empty, and the time before that, it was occupied by a Private Dan Willbourne. Arthur doesn’t know what happened to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breathes out a humorless chuckle, “Nightmare, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy grins. “As long as you’re still dreaming.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur didn’t have anything to say to that before the nurse came in and put him back under.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>✱✱✱✱✱</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s standing on the sidewalk of a bustling street where a woman almost clips his shoulder as she passes by him, her dark hair curling delicately above her shoulders, dark purple summer dress swaying as she walks. The weather is warm and sunny, only the barest breeze ruffling his hair as his shoes slide over cobblestone polished into smoothness by thousands of feet throughout the time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is not his dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soldier from the sleeping chamber is sitting at a table in front of the cafe across the street. He’s wearing beige slacks and a white dress shirt, sunglasses perched on his nose. He slides them up into his hair when Arthur slips into the seat opposite him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know this is a dream,” he states immediately, looking around at the projections walking around them. He’s wondering if he should run for his life, Arthur knows, but Arthur’s subconsciousness knows how to behave. Most of the time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The scenery is a bit different from what I usually dream of, so yeah,” Arthur responds. He thinks they are in Paris.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we in France?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A man with a job proposition for you. You’re a good dreamer, I’ve seen your files.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur is entirely unhappy with the lack of information he currently has on the man that apparently knows enough about him to reach even this information. He shakes his head. “Yeah, you have to do better than that or I’m walking into traffic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man lifts his hands placatingly. “That’s a painful way to wake up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s only pain,” Arthur retorts, not swayed. He has had enough of people walking circles around him and wrapping him up into their yarn of lies. And he’s smart enough not to walk into something blindly- even if this...dream approach is intriguing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man regards him in consideration, offers him his hand. “Dominic Cobb, a pleasure to meet you, Arthur.” Before Arthur can ask how exactly he knows his name, Cobb puts a gun on the table between them. “And if you still don’t want to take my offer after you hear me out, you’re free to shoot yourself in the head. I can tell you from experience it hurts a great deal less than getting hit by a car,” he tacks on with the barest hint of a grin in the corners of his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, fuck, Arthur has never been able to walk away from a secret, not really; they are always in the back of his head, twisting and turning and demanding to be found out, cracked open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes Cobb’s hand, still held in the air between them, and says, “Tell me about that job offer and I might manage to say it’s a pleasure to meet you too.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So. I'm not exactly sure when I'll write more- bc of this thing,,,, education,,,and bc I'm supposed to be writing something else entirely sjvfhjfdfhjf- but there's a whole thing more or less planned out for this AU.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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